


Bloodthirst

by impravidus



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Aftermath, Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Torture, Dissociation, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Mental Instability, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Recovery, Self-Harm, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Torture, Whump, but not in an in your face way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29802951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impravidus/pseuds/impravidus
Summary: Peter trembles in the backseat of the car, wrapped in a blanket to combat what was assumed to be shivering.Maybe it is. He can’t feel anything through his numb, burning skin.Gentle words are cooed into his ear in sickly sweet whispers, calloused fingers carding through his overgrown curls. They pet his hair. They cup his cheek. They wipe away the crust of dried tears staining his crackled skin.Peter just stares. Stares at the window pane splattered with streaks of rain. Doesn’t dare focus on what lies outside of it.
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 17
Kudos: 75
Collections: 2021 Irondad Sprint Event





	Bloodthirst

He doesn’t mean to. He doesn’t mean to, but he can’t stop.

Peter trembles in the backseat of the car, wrapped in a blanket to combat what was assumed to be shivering.

Maybe it is. He can’t feel anything through his numb, burning skin. 

Gentle words are cooed into his ear in sickly sweet whispers, calloused fingers carding through his overgrown curls. They pet his hair. They cup his cheek. They wipe away the crust of dried tears staining his crackled skin.

Peter just stares. Stares at the window pane splattered with streaks of rain. Doesn’t dare focus on what lies outside of it.

Peter’s fingers are at his wrist unthinkingly, picking at the scabs so that they don’t heal.

If they don’t heal, then  _ he’s _ not healing, and if  _ he’s  _ not healing, then it didn’t work. It didn’t work and it never worked but they think it works but it’s not, it’s not, it’s—

“Hey, Pete. You gotta stop picking at it. You’re gonna reopen it,” the voice connected to the hands in his hair murmurs gently. 

Peter does not stop. He can’t stop. Because if he stops then they’ll heal and he’d have healed and they’ll start over and over and over and—

There’s firm pressure on his wrists, tearing his fingers away and holding them at his thighs.

He knows better than to fight back, to wriggle free or attempt escape. He goes rigid, eerily still, waiting for what he knows will come.

“Shit,” the voice connected to the hands that hold down his wrists says. The hands rip away quickly and disappear. Peter still stares out at the window, pitter pattering rain hitting the glass like the tears he doesn’t dare let fall. Not now.

“Peter. Hey, it’s alright. You’re alright.” 

Peter doesn’t move. He knows what happens when he moves. So he sits, ramrod straight, eyes fixed on the tap, tap, tap of rain.

“Peter,” the voice connected to the hands that aren’t touching him pleads. 

Peter doesn’t move, though his hands tremble as he feels his wounds knitting themselves back together.

Time passes. Peter knows it does because he’s there. But he doesn’t feel it. It moves without him, blurry edges and faded colors, a conglomeration of things and things and things. 

It’s been so long since he’s had to comprehend the things and things and things. 

When the babbled words should no longer be drowned out into a static of fuzzy noise.

When the feelings he feels are so gentle and tender, not sharp, sharp, sharp that he has to hold himself back from melting under the touch.

The things are things from a time that feels far away. The time from before. Not long before but so long before. So far away.

He knows he should remember the things, things, things. He almost does. It’s barely there, brushing his fingertips, just out of his grasp.

But he has been tricked before. He knows these tricks. These false securities. The safe that is not safe.

He will not trust it. He will not trust the safe.

The voice connected to the hands that guide him into the little wooden house the smells of  _ sugar and soft and safety _ tells him that he will be okay. 

Garbled words fly into Peter’s brain but he can’t piece them together. 

_“Garble garble_ May. _Garble garble_ soon. So glad you’re _garble garble_. Missed you so _garble garble._ ” But one thing was clear in the garbles. “I’m so sorry, Peter.”

He’s sorry too.

The hands connected to the voice skim over his skin with not hands. It’s something scratchy but soft. It’s a… a… a towel.

It is moist. It’s warm. Like blood.

The voice connected to the hands that lightly scrub at his cut up skin begins to murmur again.

Peter doesn’t reply.

Peter’s stomach makes the noise it makes when he’s hungry. 

The voice connected to the hands pauses. The hands connected to the voice still.

“You hungry?” it asks.

Peter is. He’s starving. He always is. But eating means more hurt, more tests and he doesn’t want more. 

But his body aches for sustenance and his tongue longs for the sharp, coppery taste that laces his food.

A warm ceramic bowl is held out in front of his face. The scent is inviting but he knows that aromas can be beguiling.

“You think you can sip?” the voice connected to the hands holding the bowl of inviting scent asks.

Peter jerks his head, an almost nod. He parts his lips and begins to sip slowly at the liquid.

It doesn’t taste right.

It’s too clean. Too fresh. It should taste right. It’s the kind of taste from before.

But it’s not right. It’s missing the bittersweet tang. The punch of metallic salt.

It’s missing the blood.

Peter is disgusted in himself for craving it. For being desperate for it. But he chokes down the bland, clean, fresh liquid and bites his lip enough to draw blood so it tastes right.

_ “Axolotl blood, my pet. It’s essential for evolutionary greatness. It’s the key to the next step to humanity.” Crooked smiles and manic eyes. “Enjoy your meal, pet. You are my key to greatness.” _

When the hands connected to the voice pulls the soup away, some blood dribbles down his chin.

“Shit!” it exclaims. 

The scratchy, blood warm towel comes to his mouth and presses lightly against the broken skin.

Peter shakes his head, wanting to savor the no hurt for as long as he can. If he’s still eating, then he can’t start… can’t...

“C’mon, bud. It’s okay. You’re okay.”

Peter continues to squirm, a low whine escaping his throat.

“What did they do to you?” the voice connected to the hands wiping at his mouth mumbles, tight and pained.

_ Why does it sound like that? Did he make it sound like that? _

“Please,” Peter says, his voice meek and crackled from weeks of screaming. “Please no more.”

The hands connected to the voice cup his cheek, the other smoothing his hair. “You’re safe, Peter. You’re never going back. It’s okay.”

Peter wants to trust it. Wants to trust that it’s over. But he’s been given empty promises and he’s learnt to never get hope.

“Do you wanna get cleaned up? Huh? I’m sure you’d love a nice warm shower?”

The thought of the warm spray is a foreign thought. One he dreamt of often but never actually thought he’d get.

“C’mon. I’ll get you your favorite jammies and you can curl up and get some sleep, huh? We’ll deal with everything else in the morning.”

The voice connected to the hands that lightly guide Peter up the stairs is wavering. Going up the stairs hurts. His legs are not close to recovering, but the hands connected to the voice keeps leading him up them.

He holds back whimpers as he feels the cuts reopen.

Good.

If he doesn’t heal then it didn’t work. It didn’t work and it never worked but they think it works but it’s not, it’s not, it’s—

The tile is cool in the bathroom beneath his bare feet. His feet have healed so they aren’t inhibited by the burns. He stares at the shower and tilts his head.

The smog that floats around in his mind, clouding his thoughts with a miasma of incoherence is starting to part, leaving Peter with a newfound clarity.

He doesn’t say anything, though.

He turns on the shower to show the voice connected to the hands connected to the  _ Tony  _ that he knows how.

He gives a tentative smile, toothy but not quite reaching his eyes.

“I’ve got this,” Peter says. But his voice is uncertain. His eyes are screaming for Tony to never leave him. Never leave him again. Never leave him alone in case, in case, in case—

“You sure, bud?”

Peter smiles wider, his eyes watering and begging. “Promise. I just need a nice warm shower.”

Tony is hesitant, but he nods. “I’ll leave your clothes out in the hall, okay?”

“Sounds great.”

Tony leaves with reluctance and when the door clicks closed, Peter gasps a shuddering sob.

He silently heaves in unsteady breaths, dangerously close to hyperventilation. 

The shower is fogging up the bathroom and it just reminds him the blurry nothing from the acid they poured into his eyes, they poured  _ acid _ into his  _ eyes _ —

He pulls off his tattered clothes and stares at the wounds littering his once smooth and clear skin. His legs are dribbling blood. He stares a little too long at it trickling down.

When he steps into the shower it’s scorching and abrasive and it makes him think of the iron brands pressed into his shoulder blades. He scrambles to crank it down but the spray of burning, boiling hot pounds against his not nearly healed back.

It finally deflates into a soft, lukewarm trickle and Peter can finally breathe. 

He lightly scrubs, the sting and burn always there. He hurts. He’s always hurting. He never stops hurting.

When the water runs clear, he steps out. He doesn’t know how long it’s been. Time moved without him. 

Outside his door is a pair of fresh boxers, fluffy pajama pants, a long sleeved waffle knit shirt and a pair of fuzzy socks.

He is happy that every inch of his visible skin will disappear beneath fabric.

He can’t stand to look at it any longer.

But there’s this little voice in the back of his mind. Warning him. Screaming at him. Telling him that he can’t let himself heal. It’d prove them right. But they’re not. It’s not the blood, it’s  _ him,  _ it’s always  _ been _ him, never the blood, so much blood. Blood, blood—

“Hey, bud. You alright in there?” A light tap of knuckles on mahogany. 

“Yeah. That shower really did the trick.” The words choke him as they’re forced from his throat.

Peter opens the door and smiles. 

“You ready for bed?” Tony asks. “I’ve got your room all set up.”

“Actually,” Peter replies, “you got any ice cream?”

Tony frowns. “Peter—”

“Please? It’s been so long since I’ve had any,” he says with big doe eyes.

He’s stalling. He’s stalling so he doesn’t have to face a sleepless night imprisoned by the confines of his mind.

“I’m sure we’ve got some,” Tony finally says.

Peter grins wider. “Great.”

Peter is suddenly sitting in the kitchen, palms resting on the granite of the island.

Tony places a ceramic bowl of Oreo ice cream in front of him.

“Thanks,” Peter whispers. He takes the spoon in his trembling hand and takes a bite.

It’s not the same. Why can’t it just be right?

He gnaws at the insides of his cheeks while he eats and that revolt towards himself and his need for the taste returns. He feels… guilty. Guilty that he’s so broken and needs to be fixed. He feels… angry. Angry that this happened and something in him has cracked. He’s… he’s…

He pulls the spoon out of his mouth and places it back in the bowl. 

The vanilla is stained with bright red.

“You’re bleeding again,” Tony says, rushing to his side.

Peter flinches at the fast motion.

Tony freezes, slowly moving back. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” Peter manages to say.

“You’re bleeding,” Tony repeats.

“I’m fine!” Peter snaps, voice raw and rough. His eyes go wide and his tremors intensify.

“You don’t have to be okay, Peter. No one expects you to be.”

“No, I… I am. I have to be. I… it’s all I have left. Just have to stay… fine. Just have to…”

“Peter,” Tony says gently. “May I touch you?”

“No.”

Tony takes another step back. “Okay. I won’t.” 

Peter sucks in breaths until his chest is fuzzy and the pressure in his temple is nearly unbearable.

“It doesn’t taste right without it,” Peter whispers. “Without the blood, I,” he swallows. “It’s been too long without it. It’s not the same but it… it should  _ taste right.  _ But it doesn’t. Why can’t it just—” Peter is cut off by a sob leaving his throat.

“They made you—” Tony starts, his expression frozen in horror and revulsion. He takes a long breath. “You’re gonna be okay,” 

“I don’t think I will.”

“You will,” Tony says firmly. 

Peter looks up at him with red rimmed eyes. “How?” 

“We’ll figure it out. Together.”

Peter nods, the taste of iron still pooling on his tongue.

They’ll figure it out. Together.

**Author's Note:**

> What I was thinking was that Peter got kidnapped by these people who believed the consumption of genetically modified axolotl blood would give people higher metabolic reactions and faster healing and obviously Peter _does _heal fast so they think it worked. They torture him to see how fast he heals, so Peter gets in the habit of picking open the wounds when he can so they don't heal. And they've basically been lacing his food with blood for weeks so Peter has become accustomed to the taste.__
> 
> _  
> _If you want to chat, my Tumblr is[official-impravidus](https://official-impravidus.tumblr.com/)_  
> _


End file.
